


i can tell you now (without a trace of fear)

by Quilly



Series: you gave all you had (now i am whole) [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Discussions of sex, Footnotes, Historical References, Multi, Pining, Side B - Freeform, Slow Burn, borrowing from book canon, crowley has been grossly in love since the beginning, pretentious use of song lyrics and parentheses, stars and the making thereof, wanton use of capitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 17:17:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20118727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilly/pseuds/Quilly
Summary: Crowley was a star-maker who was a little too good at asking questions.Side B ofyou gave all you had (now i am whole)i was searchingyou were on a missionthen our hearts combinedlike a neutron star collision





	i can tell you now (without a trace of fear)

**Author's Note:**

> Side B of _you gave all you had (now i am whole)_, and somehow Crowley's story came out So Much More than the other one did: more footnotes, more subtle dirty jokes, more questionable material. It's Crowley. Of course it did.
> 
> If you haven't read Side A, this might not make as much sense, but it should stand alone fine.
> 
> Title and summary from Neutron Star Collision (Love Is Forever) by Muse, because my Ineffable Husbands playlist is 40% Twilight soundtrack and I'm not ashamed. 
> 
> (Brief edit: went back and changed Crowley's pronouns during a bit that happens in Jerusalem, since Crowley is presenting female at the time. Idk. Just felt better.)
> 
> With apologies to people who understand how stars actually work.

There were many similarities between angels and demons, not that either side would admit it. In fact, Heaven and Hell were so set on being opposites that in the curious way of things, they were almost the exact same, and liable to obliterate anyone who dared point it out. Denial existed long before the joke about a river in Egypt was a twinkle in the Almighty’s eye.

Curiosity was a tool in the Almighty’s cosmic tool kit, a powerful tool that was probably best not left where little hands could reach, but as with all things, however certain angels managed to get their ethereal mitts on it could be part of the Ineffable Plan. What made Curiosity so dangerous was not Curiosity itself, but how other things reacted to it. Apparently how some angels chose to react to Curiosity’s work among their brethren was to start a bloody great War over it. At least, that’s how the being who would become the demon Crowley saw things.

He'd been minding his own business, thank you very much, spinning starlight and handing the Archangel Raphael the components they asked for as they constructed what the Almighty had said was to be a nebula. Raphael was making small talk, chattering about the Almighty’s new projects She had lined up, how human beings would be made and tested, and the being who would be Crowley had opened his mouth[1] and simply asked, “Why?”

“Because She has decreed it,” Raphael said, with a bit of a nervous laugh. “Pass me another scoop of assorted elements, would you?”

The being who would be Crowley closed his mouth, but his train of thought was by no means derailed.

He watched the War unfold as Lucifer cried that the Almighty’s plans were insufficient and his would be better and more transparent, and he watched as the Archangels teamed up to cast their brother from their midst, something of Heaven’s light tearing from their faces as the Morningstar Fell, howling curses. The being who would be Crowley quietly watched the Host expel all from its mass who would question the Almighty, and thought maybe it would be better if he tried his luck with Lucifer’s idea. At least he could see all the pieces there. At least it could be understood.

Could’ve done without the crash-landing in the boiling sulfur pits, though.

Hell was a nice place. No, in fact, Hell was the opposite of a nice place, but Crawly[2] appreciated the different aesthetic Hell had. Heaven had always hurt his eyes if he looked at it for too long, which was ironic given how much time he spent staring directly into stars. Stars weren’t as bright as Heaven, despite the void of space making them all the more brilliant. Black suited Crawly better than white ever had, anyway.

Sure, there was the cold feeling of Grace being ripped from his very essence and if he concentrated too hard on that he’d wind up like half the demons in this place, screaming and howling with rage and madness, but Crawly never really saw the point of dwelling on unpleasantness. He’d rather look ahead. That’s probably why Satan sent him up first—Crawly wasn’t face-down in the obsidian, grinding the remainder of his soul through the glass gravel and choking on the ichor like the rest of these morons. The Prince and Lords and Dukes of Hell were already assuming their new shapes, and Crawly took what felt best and popped up into the Garden of Eden to see what the fuss was about.

Being a snake was nice. It felt, in a way, as close to floating in the void of space as he could get while being on dry land. Movement was smooth without limbs, clean and efficient, just thick undulating muscle. Seeing with his sense of smell rather than relying on his eyes was nice. Curling up on a warm rock sunning his rather striking scales[3] was especially nice. Having to conform to a sense of linear time was disorienting, given that Crawly felt the last few major events of his existence had happened in a flash and existence before that was endless, but it was doable.

All in all, Crawly was enjoying Earth quite a bit. The Almighty hadn’t done a half-bad job[4], though the apple tree in the center of it all was poking Crawly’s Curiosity like mad. Apparently, he thought smugly, noticing the lingering glances of the Earth’s first woman, he wasn’t alone.

What would happen if she ate one? Just one apple, would hardly hurt, would it? Knowing the difference between Good and Evil seemed sensible, if humans were to go through life being Tested on whether they’d choose Good or Evil. Crawly couldn’t make heads or tails of why something so necessary to the Plan was also forbidden by the Almighty. At his heart, Crawly was still the kind of angel who would set hydrogen molecules on fire just to see what they did, and so he slithered towards Eve with an interesting proposition in mind.

.

Aziraphale was not like other angels.

Crawly didn’t mean it in the worshipful way or in a disparaging way, it was a simple statement of fact. No other angel Crawly could think of would’ve been given a flaming sword by the Almighty, and at the first opportunity given it away. To mortals, no less, and mortals who had just committed the world’s first Big No-No. Crawly was struck (struck? Stricken? Striked?) by him. His Curiosity tingled and vibrated at the chance to witness more interesting things at work, packaged up in a round angelic face and tufty white hair and a smile the Almighty had surely hand-carved, no one else in Heaven would have the kind of imagination to render something so beautiful.

Crawly didn’t know what he was feeling, exactly, because the terms hadn’t been invented yet[5], but when he took a half-step towards Aziraphale and immediately Aziraphale’s wing came up to cover his head from the rain, his heart gave a single, definitive, decisive thump. That settled it: Crawly made it his mission in life to stick as close to the angel as he could get away with, because surely only interesting things would happen if he did so.

“Not sure about this creation,” Crawly shouted over the rain, indicating the storm. “Think I might hide out in the Garden.” He half-turned, then looked over his shoulder, throwing his best grin at the angel. “Coming?”

“I—yes, that seems best,” Aziraphale replied, squinting against the water pouring over his face.

Just one point of clarification to make, Crawly thought as he led Aziraphale down into the Garden. Crawly’s Curiosity hummed at the thought: what would happen if an angel and a demon touched?

“There’s a rumor down in Hell,” Crawly said casually as he leaned back against a tree[6]. “Says demons’ll be destroyed if they touch an angel, and vice versa. Nobody’s quite sure what to expect.”

“I think I heard something similar before I was stationed,” Aziraphale replied, still shifting himself on the wet ground with his hands planted. A fatal mistake. “I suppose it makes some kind of sense, given…what happened.”

“Yeah,” Crawly said, and without warning grabbed Aziraphale’s wrist.

The look on Aziraphale’s face alone was worth it[7].

.

Earth was full of things to keep Crawly’s Curiosity fully occupied.

As much as he resented having orders delivered to him from Hell that would mean punishment if he ignored them (a particularly painful experiment, that), he was in love with all Earth had to offer: humanity’s cultures, flora in all its varieties, beaches and plains and volcanoes and ice caps and _alcohol_. He and Aziraphale went years and years between seeing each other simply because they were both so distracted by everything before them. Not that it was appropriate they see each other often, Aziraphale would protest, they were bitter enemies, after all, but Crawly saw the whole “angel” and “demon” thing as more a formality, really.

Crawly, for all his enthusiasm, was a realist[8]. He was there to tempt, to entice humanity to choose Evil, and choosing Evil meant choosing things that soured many of Crawly’s new favorite things. People murdered each other in the name of cultural differences, tortured for the sake of resources, were nasty just because they could. Even alcohol brought out the worst in a large percentage of people who partook. All of this was well and good (or well and bad), it meant Crawly could fudge his paperwork as much as he liked[9], but it got tiresome, hanging around all that badness. There was no creativity to it, no finesse, no subtlety. He would have to see if he could teach them to do it better.

And then, of course, there were the moments when the Opposition did things that made Crawly’s stomach turn over. More often than not, it was the things the Opposition merely allowed to happen, but when Heaven got personally involved…

There were strange salt pillars dotting the road from the plains that used to house Sodom and Gomorrah, and Crawly hissed when he got close enough to realize that they were people, or had been previously. That reeked of an Archangel letting off some steam. Crawly had no doubts that Sodom and Gomorrah had probably deserved what came to them, at least according to Heaven, but things like this were just overkill, in his opinion.

The plains were a crater at this point, four out of five cities in the area reduced to smoldering ash, more buildings knocked down than were still standing. Last Crawly heard, the cities in the area (namely the two whose names wouldn’t be forgotten and would be equated with various kinds of misattributed sins) had been getting a bit carried away, but he hadn’t realized it was this bad. He was just glad he wasn’t in the area at the time, there was no guarantee the Almighty wouldn’t have let Her brimstone fall on his head and destroy him even if he watched from a presumably-safe distance. There were echoes of screams everywhere Crawly looked, oozing up from the ground like a fume. There weren’t even any bodies left.

Sitting on the bank of the Jordan River was a figure in white, and Crawly made his way there instead of going to poke around and satisfy his morbid Curiosity.

“Quite the scene, angel,” Crawly said when he was close enough that he knew Aziraphale had heard him coming, sprawling next to him on the ground and dipping a bare foot in the Jordan. Aziraphale shot him a strained, bland smile, but said nothing. Crawly dug a little deeper. “All your own work, then?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Crawly, you know I don’t have that kind of power,” Aziraphale said. His hands were shaking. Crawly pretended not to notice and stuck his other foot in the river, as well, letting the cool water clean the road-dust from his scales[10].

“What was the tipping point, then?” Crawly asked. “Too much carousing? Incorrect headwear? Wrong kind of sacrifice?”

“I believe it was more the complete disregard of the Almighty’s command, the…defiling…of guests and strangers, and unrepentant devotion to every kind other kind of wickedness,” Aziraphale said primly, smoothing down his robes over his knees. “Mainly that second thing, I think. Do you know, we hadn’t been in Lot’s abode more than five minutes before a whole gang of people surrounded the place, demanding Lot hand us over so they could…um…‘know’ us.”

“Yuck,” Crawly shivered, immediately tamping down the vicious flare of approval at the Almighty’s retribution, in light of this new information. “What did he say?”

“Oh, Lot refused, and someone made mention of his daughters and Lot tried to dissuade the crowd from taking them, too,” Aziraphale said, rubbing his eyes.

“Bet you a pile of gold someone’s going to write that one down wrong,” Crawly muttered.

“It was all a bit of a blur after that,” Aziraphale sighed. “I think this was Sandalphon’s first run since he got promoted to Archangel, and he got carried away, in my opinion. Turned Lot’s poor wife to salt.”

“And other people, besides,” Crawly replied. “Dreadful business.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, and put his head in his hands, the picture of misery. Crawly chewed on his lip. Then he nudged Aziraphale with his foot.

“Think there’s still some good mead in Zoar,” Crawly offered. “Fancy a pint?”

Aziraphale huffed. Then he sighed. “I could probably use a drink right now.”

“Excellent,” Crawly grinned, standing and offering a hand. Aziraphale didn’t take it, but that was alright. This was the first time he’d ever successfully gotten Aziraphale to agree to get a drink with him, and that was victory enough. “Think we might take a shortcut? Not sure if holy brimstone consecrates the ground it hits and I’d rather not blow up.”

“By all means,” Aziraphale nodded, the smallest of smiles gracing his face, and Crawly also counted that as a win.

Zoar was subdued after watching four of its mates be reduced to holy ash overnight, and Crawly found that it affected his enjoyment of the mead. More so than that, Aziraphale kept staring into his mug and zoning out, and Crawly sighed.

“What,” he said, and Aziraphale looked up at him, startled. “You’re upset about something, clearly. Thought you angelic types were supposed to rejoice in the destruction of evil.”

“It’s just,” Aziraphale said, and he hesitated, then buried his face in his mug, drinking deep. Crawly let him have his moment, then refilled his mug when Aziraphale resurfaced. “I’s just,” Aziraphale hiccupped, “She said—she said she’d give ‘em time. An’ Lot ‘n Abram, they were lookin’ all—all over, just needed ten g-good souls.”

“I’m surprised the Almighty even let them try,” Crawly said, now slowing down his drinking and watching Aziraphale with rapt attention. He’d never seen Aziraphale drunk before. “Guess they failed, then?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said bitterly, and took another long swig of mead. “’m not qu-questioning, not—I just don’ understand.”

“No, me either,” Crawly said, and felt perhaps a subject change would be best. He was starting to get an itch between his wings the more Aziraphale swayed into dangerous territory with his thoughts. He didn’t know why, exactly, but the thought of Aziraphale questioning his faith wasn’t as exciting as it should’ve been. Sadness didn’t suit him, and eternal misery would suit him less. Crawly looked down at his empty mug, and got an idea for a way to cheer Aziraphale up. Might not work, but at least he was trying[11].

“Reckon I can bounce a coin into my cup from a couple feet away, want to see?”

And that was how Crawly invented quarters, though it went by a different name at the time.

.

Crowley[12] was more careful about his assignments and what he said in memos after his first discorporation.

It was stupid, really; in hindsight, Crowley wished he could’ve framed it as a vicious fight against some priests, but what actually happened was he fell off a spooked horse as he was riding away from a fire and hit his head at the exact wrong moment in the exact wrong place. The discorporation itself wasn’t so bad, the body wasn’t equipped to deal with those levels of pain and be conscious as it burned to death, but it was the re-corporation process that was awful.

Incident reports filled out in triplicate, request forms that had to be notarized and then re-notarized after the notary ate the first copy, and now this, sitting in a room with an artificial grunt demon, arguing his case for why he deserved a body after he’d been so careless with the last one.

“You’ve got my file there, you know what I’ve been up to,” Crowley said, aiming for charming, which was difficult when he’d said the same thing four times and the grunt demon was yawning and scratching at their eye makeup. “How could I not deserve another body? I have big plans when I get back, big plans.”

“Hmm, yeah,” the demon yawned again. “The thing is, Demon Crowley, there’s something of a big demand here in Hell for bodies. All kinds of demons itching for a chance to nip up and pull a temptation to make the Dark Council take notice. You’ve done some cool stuff, I reckon, but who’s to say some other deserving scum down here couldn’t do better?”

“Mate, you’re talking to the original tempter,” Crowley rolled his eyes. It was difficult to do when his eyes were full-yellow but he made it work. “Remember that whole business with the apple in Eden? That was me. Entirely my idea. Name one temptation some other bloke’s done that can top that.”

The demon shuffled the papers in Crowley’s overflowing file[13], hmmming and driving Crowley up the wall. “Hmm, yeah, the thing is, Mr. Crowley, there’s talk that maybe you’ve been up there too long. Lost your touch, as it were.”

“Lost my—who said that? Who is saying that?” Crowley growled, standing up and planting his hands on the desk, leaning towards the unimpressed demon with a snarl. “Let me back up there and they’ll see evil like they’ve never seen before, mayhem that’ll bring a tear to good old Satan’s eye. I’ll use their spines as candlesticks by the time I’m done!”

“Yeah, it’s just—”

Crowley, on a normal day, had a distaste for murder, but right now, he was at the end of his tether and his demonic prowess was on the line. He felt a bit bad for it, but any guilt was swallowed up in satisfaction as Crowley let himself slide into snake form and then lashed out with brutal efficiency. The disposable little grunt demon never knew what hit them as enormous fangs tore their throat from their generic essence, and Crowley miracled himself clean before he shifted back. He picked up his file, now properly spattered with off-brand ichor, and strode through the halls until he reached the Re-Corporation office, slamming the file on the overcrowded front desk.

“Can I speak to someone about expediting my re-corporation process?” Crowley said, and wiped a speck of blood from his chin that he left there for dramatic effect. The identical grunt demons all looked at him with something closer to terror, and Crowley grinned, too many teeth and pure malice oozing from him.

The whole thing was quite orderly after that, and Crowley found himself strolling through Athens again in no time. He felt, on the whole, pleased with himself[14].

That is, until he received instructions to make his way to Judea and work himself into the good graces of Herod, in preparation for the birth of the Son of God happening soon. Crowley felt particularly uneasy about the line instructing him to play up Herod’s paranoia. Bad things happened when rulers got paranoid, and not Crowley’s preferred flavor of bad. But…he made a show of force in Hell, and he had to follow up on it, at least for the first assignment.

The morning after Herod’s kill order in Bethlehem took effect found Crowley in the back of a cart bound for Egypt, drunk off his gourd and despondent. He remained in that state for about thirty years before being summoned back to Judea, and this time, nothing Hell could do could make her do the job the way they wanted it done. Something she and the Almighty had in common, she thought in one of her stupors, they both had children’s blood on their hands.

Crowley stood next to Aziraphale and watched the Christ die and wondered if she could be a god herself if she just stopped caring so much about consequences.

“I think another drink is in order,” Aziraphale murmured when the deed was done and they were offloading the body from the cross, and Crowley nodded.

“Got some wine stored away at my place, if you’d like,” Crowley said, and started to turn and walk away. She got a couple of steps when there was an unfamiliar contact that made her jump, but it was just Aziraphale, holding a hand to the small of her back and glancing at her every now and then.

“World can be a bit dangerous when you’re dressed like that,” Aziraphale said softly, and Crowley wasn’t sure if she should be touched or offended, but she pressed in closer anyway, to prolong the contact. Aziraphale’s touch was gentle, protective, and Crowley’s throat bobbed as she swallowed down half a dozen sentences that would likely be both embarrassing and incomprehensible. She didn’t deserve to be handled like this, and yet Aziraphale did. It was nice.

Later, curled around Aziraphale’s snoring form and being the awake one, for once, carding her fingers through Aziraphale’s hair and feeling her soppy drunk heart beat fit to burst in her chest, it hit Crowley all at once that she was well and truly, pardon her French, screwed.

.

Crowley was fairly sure eternal damnation wasn’t his punishment so much as eternal hubris. He made making his own life difficult an Olympic sport. If Crowley could bottle his ability to shoot himself in the foot and weaponize it, Earth would have fallen probably two thousand years ago. He didn’t mean to do it, obviously. Crowley rather valued his life, and everything therein. After Bethlehem, he avoided discorporation with more vigilance than before. He was merely the kind of idiot who glued coins to the sidewalk while drunk on Saturday, and by Tuesday was leaning over to pick one up, having completely forgotten what he’d done until it was too late.

Aziraphale made it easier in that he made Crowley feel better about himself in general. It was just his way. Maybe over the years Crowley had just gotten too complacent, expected too much that Aziraphale would just be there in his darkest moments. Aziraphale fed Crowley’s Curiosity like nothing else, so when Crowley finally a) found the vocabulary for how he felt, and b) stopped panicking about it long enough to think maybe it was alright because maybe Aziraphale could at least count him as a friend…

Well. Start at the beginning. Not the Beginning beginning, just the start of this part of it.

Crowley and Aziraphale had shared body heat and skin contact and wine and beds a precious few times over the last five thousand years. Normally it happened while drunk, which was a secret reason why Crowley made it happen so often[15]. They hadn’t spoken since the Camelot business, which Crowley thought more of as his first failed attempt at pitching the Arrangement than an actual disagreement, but Aziraphale could be so fussy about his assignments.

Currently, Crowley sat on a hilltop watching the disaster the humans were calling a Crusade somewhere in Turkey, drinking swill that was at least getting the job done as he swayed while he sat. Silly fools. Who took an army of peasants and thought they were going to reclaim the Holy Land, or whatever nonsense they were preaching these days? Honestly, Crowley would have to pass on the commendation he was about to get for taking credit for this whole mess, it was a truly elegant orchestration of idiocy.

“Mind if I join you?”

“’zirph’le,” Crowley slurred, trying to look around for him but overbalancing himself instead. A warm arm caught him around the shoulders, and Crowley was once again grateful for the invention of dark glasses, because he knew he was incapable of reining in his own soppy expression when Aziraphale smiled at him. He held up the bottle. “S’awful but ‘m drunk.”

“Yes, I noticed,” Aziraphale said, sitting next to him on the ground. He looked put-together as always, his hair glowing in the late afternoon sun, and he held up his own bottle, quirking a sort of sad smile. “I’ll be catching up directly.”

“Good,” Crowley nodded, and took another swig. “S’this one a mine, ‘r one a yours?”

“Neither, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale said, grimacing at whatever he was drinking. “I was forbidden from interfering in this one. Heaven seems to think it’ll prove something to let the humans do as they will in this matter.”

“S’stupid,” Crowley hissed. “None a—none uvvem had to die. Farmers goin’ agin—against soldiers? Pfft.” He spat in his effort to convey his disdain. It did not make it far. “N’ the s-silly buggers’ll call ‘em martyrs or something, do it all over ‘gain.”

“Probably,” Aziraphale agreed. “Oh dear, this stuff isn’t quite as strong as I was hoping.”

“Trade,” Crowley said, putting the rest of his bottle in Azirphale’s hand and taking what Aziraphale brought. It tasted better than whatever Crowley had, anyway, and the grimace on Aziraphale’s face got worse. Crowley giggled.

That was more or less how they found themselves stargazing in Turkey, still drunk enough for it to matter but not so drunk they couldn’t point out constellations to each other.

“I used to know all the names of those stars, back in the day,” Crowley sighed, his glasses pushed up to the top of his head, and Aziraphale looked at him, frowning. Crowley shrugged. “Names never quite made it to any other language but Heavenly. Can’t say ‘em anymore.”

“I didn’t know you worked on stars,” Aziraphale said.

“Mm, yeah. With Raphael,” Crowley nodded. “They were alright, for an Archangel. Distractible. Nervous. Liked to chatter.” He winked at Aziraphale. “Reminds me of someone.”

“Oh, honestly,” Aziraphale huffed, his cheeks darkening further. “M’not anywhere close to an Archangel.”

“You’re a lot more bloody fun to be around, that’s for sure,” Crowley said, and looked back up at the stars. He didn’t know how it happened, but somehow his hand and Aziraphale’s had wound up pretty close together. The thought made him sweat somewhat, and how pathetic was _that_? Crowley had performed acts and temptations of Lust that would make a succubus’ hair curl, and the thought of holding Aziraphale’s hand flustered him. He cleared his throat for no particular reason, then gently touched the back of Aziraphale’s hand with his fingers, testing it out.

On a normal night, Aziraphale would snatch his hand back and fret about propriety. Tonight, Aziraphale hooked a few fingers into Crowley’s and sighed. Crowley tried not to let the grin show on his face. It was looking good for a potential cuddle night.

“I always wondered what they were made of,” Aziraphale said softly, gazing upwards, and Crowley tried to pull his attention from their hands.

“Hydrogen, mostly,” Crowley said. “Nuclear fusion turning it to helium is the general process of how a star generates light. Sometimes they do odd things like mutate or collapse and it’s great fun.”

“Some humans believe it’s their ancestors up there, watching over them,” Aziraphale said. Crowley snorted.

“What mook thought that up?” he tittered, and Aziraphale turned his hand to grasp Crowley’s properly, probably so he could squeeze it sternly.

“It’s poetic, Crowley, don’t laugh,” Aziraphale sniffed.

“No, you’re right, I, someone who had a hand in building the cosmos and know the exact chemical formulae to creating every kind of star there is and a few we never got around to, should not laugh at the superstitions of tiny humans looking at lights in the sky,” Crowley snorted.

“Yes, well, we don’t all have the advantages of being privileged enough to work with an Archangel,” Aziraphale smiled. Then the smile faded. “It’s…rather a shame you won’t get to make any more, isn’t it?”

And here, here is the tragedy of Crowley’s life, here is where he realized how badly he mucked himself over:

Crowley’s Curiosity immediately wondered what it would be like if he leaned over and kissed Aziraphale on the mouth right now, because his face was soft with pity and fondness and the starlight gleamed in his hair, and it just wasn’t fair, because a tiny, tiny part of Crowley’s brain whispered, _Heaven wouldn’t have been so bad, if I’d known you were there._

“I’ve been thinking,” Aziraphale said, breaking the silence but not the moment, “about what you said in Wessex.”

“Oh?” Crowley replied intelligently, still a bit stuck on imagining Aziraphale’s lips and the texture thereof.

“I think…I think maybe it’s a sound idea, after all,” Aziraphale said hesitantly, and it took a minute to sink in for Crowley. Then he grinned.

“I’m glad you think so,” he said, and squeezed Aziraphale’s hand because he could. “So…we keep in touch so we can stay out of each other’s way, and every now and then…”

“Every now and then, yes, perhaps we can…share the load,” Aziraphale nodded, and cracked another small smile. Crowley stared at him and wondered, in the most secret parts of his twisted little heart, if this meant they were finally friends now. He didn’t dare ask aloud for fear of ruining the moment, but Aziraphale still hadn’t let go of his hand by the time the moment came to a natural conclusion and they were looking at the stars again.

Drunk and pleased and a little heady from the physical touch, Crowley’s Curiosity began to wander down a different path entirely, wondering what would happen if, say, an angel and a demon loved each other very much….

.

Crowley and Aziraphale had a fight.

Truly it was Aziraphale’s fault, Crowley muttered to himself as he ensconced himself in blankets, trying very hard not to remember that they were Aziraphale’s blankets in the first place. Aziraphale had offered Crowley a place to stay because it was 1349 and Pestilence was on a joyride, and they were both exhausted from trying to keep up with it. Crowley shouldn’t have cared about the thousands and thousands of dead and dying, but there were a lot of things Crowley shouldn’t have cared about that he did, so there.

The night had started so promising. Crowley finally got to bathe, for one, sinking into Aziraphale’s large bathtub with a sigh. His hair was in such a state that it took a miracle to fix—a minor one, since Crowley didn’t have the energy for a proper expenditure of demonic force, but enough to get the matting out of his hair so he could brush his fingers through it. He cleaned the stains and grime from his skin, willing himself to also wash away the memories of the house of people he’d been caring for[16]. “Caring for” was perhaps a little strong, but Crowley was sure he sensed the potential for great evil in some of them. Yes. That was it. Evil.

Crowley didn’t want to put his filthy clothes back on and didn’t feel like magicking them clean, so he did what any self-respecting demon would do, and walked into his host’s room to find something of his to steal. Aziraphale’s wardrobe was delightfully simple, and a bit smaller to fit his shorter stature, but if Crowley managed to take one of the longer shirts and grow it a few more inches for decency’s sake, who had to know?

He banished his filth from the tub, reheated the water, and sent Aziraphale in to wash himself afterwards, because Aziraphale was looking dead on his feet and his hair had gone from white-gold to silver-grey and it wasn’t a good look. Crowley took up the bottle of something-or-other that Aziraphale had been clutching onto for dear life when he saw Crowley in one of his shirts, and took a swig. It was brandy, he thought, and quite good, too. He smiled to himself. Aziraphale’s face really had been priceless. For a moment he could lie to himself and think that there was heat in Aziraphale’s eyes, when he looked at him.

Now to inspect the damage, Crowley grimaced, and took out his wings.

Demon wings are well-groomed and sleek. This is because demons have a reputation to maintain and are not usually making themselves the caretakers of a house full of sick people. The frightful state they were in now made Crowley hiss. He’d molted recently and apparently hadn’t noticed, because there were sheaths littered throughout his feathers with disgusting abandon. He poked at a few of them, then wondered if he kept them out, if he could talk Aziraphale into preening them for him. Maybe he could get Aziraphale to take his wings out, and finally get his fingers in those pure white feathers.

Heartened by the thought, Crowley stole another mouthful of brandy and waited for Aziraphale to finish his bath.

“Been a bit since I’ve had them out. Thought they could use a preening.” Crowley said when Aziraphale re-entered the kitchen and stopped dead, staring at his wings. Crowley did his best to make his smile flirtatious, but didn’t think he quite made it there. “You do mine, I do yours?”

“I…” Aziraphale dithered, and Crowley held his breath. After a moment, Aziraphale crossed slowly to the table, picked up the bottle of brandy, and upended it into his mouth, taking two quick gulps. “Of course, dear boy.”

“Right then, hand me a wing and I’ll get the inside of one of yours while you get one of mine,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale obliged. For once, Aziraphale’s wings were in better condition, Crowley thought with a souring of his pride, but then Aziraphale started touching his wings, and oh, dear, oh dear, this was a bad idea. Crowley forgot how vocal he usually was when getting his wings preened. It helped to have a task at hand to concentrate on, straightening Aziraphale’s feathers and trying not to feel him working through his own, but it was almost a relief when they were both done with the undersides and Crowley coughed. “Let me do the outside of yours first, it’ll go faster.”

Aziraphale hummed his agreement and turned around, and Crowley tried so very, very hard not to notice or comment on the occasional little noises Aziraphale made as Crowley worked[17]. When they were done, Aziraphale’s wings were handsome indeed, glossy and white and faintly iridescent in places, and Crowley could have buried his face in them if it wasn’t so far outside the realm of Okay it passed into truly demonic behavior. Curiosity railed in his chest like a screaming toddler.

Crowley had also forgotten, in his desperate bid to keep his emotions in check, that Aziraphale still had to do the outside of Crowley’s wings.

It was a more involved process and Aziraphale’s soft hands and gentle fingers were thorough. Crowley leaned his head into his hand and gave up on censoring himself completely, because frankly it was impossible.

“All done, dear,” Aziraphale said gently, and Crowley started from where he’d been half-asleep. “Do you want a drink, or sleep?”

“Ngk,” Crowley groaned, leaning backwards to glare at Aziraphale, and if he happened to be leaning into Aziraphale’s stomach to do so, well, wasn’t his fault. “Sleep. Then drink. Then more sleep.”

“It can be arranged,” Aziraphale smiled, and Crowley cleared his throat, dragging himself upright and folding his wings away and telling himself that blood had better not _dare_ to rush into his cheeks. “You seem to already know where the bedroom is, so make yourself at home. I’ve more proper nightshirts, if you’d like.”

“I wouldn’t be caught dead in a nightshirt, angel,” Crowley snorted, and then yawned. This century was stupid and he was tired. He took several steps towards Aziraphale’s bedroom, then realized Aziraphale wasn’t following and looked over his shoulder. “Coming?”

Aziraphale’s expression was torn, and the longer the silence stretched the more agonized it grew. Crowley sighed, the warm, contented, happy bubble in his chest popping. “Alright, then. See you in the morning, Aziraphale.” Then he walked the rest of the way, telling himself he wasn’t fleeing. Aziraphale said something as he shut the door, but if he had something to say, he could say it to Crowley’s face. Crowley crawled into bed and waited for sleep to take him.

Despite his exhaustion, Crowley stared at the wall, chewing his lip, lamenting the state of his own emotions and how stupid he was. Just because Aziraphale did his wings for him and occasionally seemed to enjoy a snuggle after a night of drinking didn’t mean he wanted to crawl into bed with him sober, and that thought hurt deeply. Crowley didn’t like dwelling on the negatives, because they only made him more upset, but…this was stupid, Crowley was stupid, he was too tired to even process what had just happened in a coherent way.

Aziraphale tip-toeing into his own room shook Crowley from his stupor, and with more enthusiasm than Crowley meant to show, he threw himself into Aziraphale’s arms as soon as he was close enough, soaking up his heat greedily and feeling Aziraphale’s chuckle reverberate in his chest. Crowley could quite literally stay there forever, if Aziraphale would let him.

“If” being the operative word.

“I’ve been thinking…” Aziraphale said after a while, and then didn’t complete the thought. Crowley felt a poke of unease in his gut.

“Dangerous habit, that,” he mumbled instead.

“Indeed,” Aziraphale replied. Crowley, with his head against Aziraphale’s chest, could hear that his heart was being erratic. The unease in Crowley’s stomach grew. He didn’t press the issue, and was in fact almost asleep when Aziraphale spoke again. “Crowley, are you awake still?”

“No,” Crowley grunted.

“I was just thinking…if maybe we ought to be more discreet,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley felt a spasm of panic that caused his limbs to tighten around Aziraphale without conscious thought. “I just worry…it might be too much.”

“What might?” Crowley asked, wondering if he could forestall the inevitable by refusing to move.

“I’m not sure we should do…this…for a while, after tonight,” Aziraphale said, and the silence in Crowley’s head was deafening. “Between the Arrangement and our respective Head Offices, I just worry what will happen if we’re caught spending more time together than is seemly.”

So that was it, then. Aziraphale still worried about appearances, even when it was just the two of them in a private moment. Crowley was no stranger to heartbreak, but the snap of his own hope was somehow more devastating than the first time it happened, during his million-mile-an-hour saunter downwards. He’d grown used to Aziraphale blustering about moral lines and “angels” and “demons” but he hadn’t really thought it was Aziraphale’s true thoughts, just Heavenly dogma. Aziraphale certainly hadn’t seemed to mind being pressed up together, until now. Well. If Aziraphale was so worried about what Heaven thought anyway…

“What might happen to you, you mean,” Crowley finally said, his voice flat, and he squirmed away from Aziraphale’s grip, turning over and burying his face in a pillow.

“No, what might happen to you, you silly serpent,” Aziraphale said, and it wasn’t fair, he shouldn’t sound on the verge of tears when Crowley’s chest was full of glass shards. “As you’re constantly reminding me, Hell doesn’t send reprimands, not like Heaven’s. I…Crowley, please look at me.”

Crowley didn’t want to. He didn’t think he could bear it. He compromised by turning his head halfway, making sure Aziraphale could at least see one eye, glaring into the darkness and savagely willing himself not to start tearing up. He was a demon, for Satan’s sake.

“I’ve no issue with physical closeness when it’s necessary, but how many kingdoms have you and I witnessed falling because of indiscretion?” Aziraphale asked. What Crowley heard was the unspoken _how many kingdoms have you personally destroyed by exploiting those indiscretions?_ “I quite like what we have going for the moment. The Arrangement, the world, when it isn’t being torn asunder by horrible plagues, all of it.”

“You’re sending mixed signals, angel,” Crowley replied, and by some demonic feat of force kept all roiling emotion from his voice. “What do you want?”

“I want—I want us both to be able to continue our work, and to be sensible about it,” Aziraphale said after a long moment. “And…if it’s alright with you…for old times’ sake, I wouldn’t mind it if you felt you could sleep tonight with me nearby. I’m rather done with this century and what it’s offering.”

Crowley sighed. “You and me both.” He rolled over, facing Aziraphale fully, wishing he’d been looking when Aziraphale had offered one more night. He wanted to take it. Somebody _knew_ how badly Crowley wanted it, to take what he was given and not complain, but the shred of self-respect Crowley still clung to very quietly said he was tired of this and just wanted to sleep, preferably alone, preferably for as long as demonically possible. “Aziraphale, if I go to sleep now, I may not wake up for a very long time. I don’t want to. Sleep here, don’t sleep here, it won’t matter to me once I’m out. But I think I’m worth more than a part-time bedwarmer, don’t you?”

Aziraphale flinched, then sat up. Crowley watched him, angry and desperate and conflicted, and Aziraphale climbed out of the bed, smoothing down the covers.

“Of course you are,” Aziraphale said, so quietly Crowley wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. Aziraphale cleared his throat. “This cottage is protected, and should last for a few decades, at least. You sleep as long as you need to.”

Crowley held eye contact for as long as he could bear it, and when he no longer could, he burrowed into the blankets. “Wake me when this century’s over,” he said, and closed his eyes until Aziraphale left and shut the door.

Which is how he got here, laying in the dark, no Aziraphale but the promise of his protection, wanting to sleep but being unable to, the ragged broken pieces of his heart slicing into his chest and driving him, finally, to silent tears[18]. It took the last of his strength, and Crowley, heartbroken and in love and sick with both grief and confusion, fell asleep.

.

There was a kind of star Crowley and Raphael had made by complete accident.

“Oh,” Raphael had said, “that’s different.”

“It’s brilliant,” Crowley had breathed, and preened somewhat when Raphael patted him on the back.

He’d loved making stars. He was proud of them. He thought they had been the pinnacle of creation[19].

Maybe that’s why he was so pleased when the humans finally got it right with their heliocentric model of the universe, because Crowley had read the tripe Ptolemy came up with and the only thing stopping him from setting fire to all of Alexandria was the thought that Aziraphale would be upset with him if he burned down the library[20]. Currently Crowley was sitting below a tower where Galileo Galilei (there was a mouthful) was feverishly recording the phases of Venus, listening to his mutterings and occasionally sending a mild correction through the ether to Galileo’s brain, his glasses tucked away for the night. It was fascinating, to watch the humans learn.

Galileo’s tower in Padua was surrounded by beautiful gardens maintained by the university, and when Crowley felt Galileo was on the right track enough to not need any more tending, he got up and started walking, looking at the plants and flowers bathed in moonlight. There had certainly never been anything like these when Crowley was in Heaven. He reached out and felt waxy leaves and velvet petals, and out of Curiosity pushed his awareness to encompass the whole of them, leaf, stalk, and root. They were incredibly intricate, and fragile. If he stopped and looked long enough, he could see the working parts—stomata and xylem and phloem, root tips and pistils and stamens. Crowley wondered who had been in charge of their creation while he was corralling gamma rays out in space.

In truth, Crowley wasn’t in Italy for any particular reason. Crowley had slept in London for nearly a century to escape one disappointment, only to fall face-first into another one soon after waking; the Spanish Inquisition was a big wad of Nope he was commended for, went to see what the fuss was about, and promptly went into an alcoholic coma over and fell asleep for a week. He awoke disoriented and hungover and wanting in a sick, desperate way to see Aziraphale, just to make sure there was one thing still on Earth worth waking up for.

Aziraphale had not disappointed.

Crowley kept thinking about that star, the one only made after another star collapsed—a neutron star, smaller but somehow denser and more gravitationally powerful than the star that came before, something that hovered between either maintaining its new existence, or becoming a black hole[21]. He thought about the Arrangement and the careful way he and Aziraphale were rebuilding their friendship after the incident that caused Crowley to nap for so long. He thought about a flower, its brief life and its fragile beauty. He thought about Aziraphale, leaning into him as they whispered about something in a pub, and immediately denying all knowledge of him when someone insinuated they were friends. Admittedly, at the time it had been funny to watch Aziraphale splutter, only gaining a sad edge when Crowley was drinking alone and brooding.

He needed a drink.

“Seems a bit late for you to be lurking in a university garden, Crowley.”

“Not lurking,” Crowley protested, turning towards Aziraphale as he approached from the direction of the university campus proper. “Just admiring the work.”

“Oh, yes, the garden,” Aziraphale said, stopping just next to Crowley and peering at the flowerbed Crowley had stopped at. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

“Well, it’s no neutron star,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale frowned at him. Crowley offered no explanation, smiling benignly and with his natural eyes shining in moonlight. “What’re you up to, then?”

“Just happened to be in the area,” Aziraphale shrugged. “Shall we get a drink?”

“Is there something you need?” Crowley asked, falling into step anyway like he knew he would, despite his misgivings on Aziraphale’s real reason for being there.

“Oh, no, not as of yet,” Aziraphale shook his head. “As I said, just in the area. More of a holiday than a mission.”

“Well, alright, then,” Crowley shrugged, and it doesn’t occur to Crowley until daybreak, when he and Aziraphale parted their staggering ways, that maybe Aziraphale just missed him.

Hope kindled in his chest even though he knew it shouldn’t, more powerful than before, bright and small and magnetic.

.

Hell did not send rude notes.

That’s because Hell sent Hastur.

Crowley was working on his cravat one minute, and the next doing a backwards scramble as his bedroom door closed on its own. Not quite by its own, because Hastur was behind it, stalking towards Crowley with his dead black eyes and ridiculous wig and something that might have been an attempt at what humans wore, sixty years out of date. He looked like he’d crawled from a pirate bilge that had been docked in a swamp, and the smell matched. Crowley was already babbling, trying to think back on everything he’d done recently that could possibly have warranted such a visit.

“Duke Hastur, such a surprise, didn’t hear you come in, would you like a drink, or maybe somewhere to sit, you’re looking very evil this evening—”

“Crowley,” Hastur said with his dry, dry voice, so at odds with his slimy bearing. “Lord Dagon sends a message.”

“Oh.” Crowley straightened his waistcoat and did his level best to pretend he was not still in the jaws of panic. “Well. Yes. Usually you lot send me letters.”

“Dagon felt this one warranted a…personal touch,” Hastur said, smiling unpleasantly[22]. “Just wanted to check in and see how you were dealing with the Opposition.”

“What?” Crowley said blankly. Hell had never inquired into his business like that before. Crowley wasn’t even sure Hell knew what Heaven’s earthly agent’s name was. “It’s going fine, hardly worth a personal call.”

“Is it,” Hastur said, still smiling. “We have an agent who swears they saw the two of you talking in a park recently, feeding ducks. How disgustingly domestic of you.”

“Is that it?” Crowley scoffed, shifting his weight. “Honestly, Lord Dagon needn’t have bothered, I hardly expect an amateur agent to know what subterfuge looks like.”

“Subterfuge,” Hastur repeated.

“Yes, subterfuge,” Crowley nodded. He was hitting his stride now. “Know thine enemy, one of these clever mortals said once—think he might even still be down there, come to think of it, might have to check the Pits of Torment. Anyway, what I’m doing is feeling out the Opposition and learning his strengths and weaknesses to use against him. It’s all perfectly evil, and terribly clever, and I’ll thank your agent to do his research before bothering management with inconsequential things.”

Hastur stared at him like he could see Crowley’s very soul, and for a moment he was Crawly again, writhing in the dust like a wounded snake. Crowley very carefully did not make any expression other than his usual devious smirk, and didn’t move, trying not to give away a hint of nerves. If Hastur scented weakness, it would be over, and Crowley couldn’t defeat a Duke of Hell on his own.

“Very well,” Hastur finally said. “I’ll tell Lord Dagon.” Hastur took one step closer to Crowley, his default scowl becoming a little more intense. “I don’t trust you, Crowley, and we are always watching. Never forget that.”

In a puff of oily smoke, Hastur was gone, and Crowley counted to thirty before he finally sagged into a chair, putting his hand over his now-racing heart and breathing hard.

That was too close. Entirely too close.

Crowley checked his pocket watch and swore, returning to the mirror to fuss more with his cravat before deciding it was as good as it was going to get and finding his gloves, hat, and walking-stick. He was going to be late. Even so, Crowley put the problem of Hell and more powerful demons than him coming to get him on a low simmer in the back of his mind, turning it over and over and thinking.

London was the center of social activity these days, and Crowley had it on good authority that there was going to be a rollicking good time to be had if he showed up at a certain ballroom this evening. The people throwing the party were not known to Crowley personally, but that had never stopped him before, and besides, there was always a chance a certain angel had been coaxed out of his hermitage in his bookshop by the rumored presence of a famous author[23].

Crowley arrived fashionably late, as was his custom, and breezed right in as if he belonged there. He could already tell that it was going to be a good one, given the amount of people on the ballroom floor and the glasses of wine being floated around by servants. The perfect kind of environment for a temptation or two. Or six. He could already feel wandering eyes and burning hands just waiting for a push to knock them into vice, and who was Crowley to keep them waiting?

Making his way towards the dining hall and keeping his eyes peeled, Crowley drew a breath and casually breathed out, unleashing a gentle ripple of demonic essence. Crowley’s preferred brand of mischief wouldn’t end in violence (not dangerous violence, anyway, or at least not mass-scale dangerous violence), but he could already feel the conflict of jealousy and pettiness brewing. Best he get it out of his system now, before Aziraphale arrived.

To his pleasant surprise, Aziraphale was already there, sipping wine and nibbling tarts, not engaged in conversation with anyone, just enjoying the evening. Crowley sauntered his way over casually (oh, so casually) and dropped into the seat next to him, throwing his best debonair smile in Aziraphale’s direction and taking a tart from his plate.

“Evening,” he said, and bit into the tart.

“Honestly, my dear, you’ve been here two minutes, is there really a need to be quite so…” Aziraphale gestured aimlessly, and Crowley swallowed and continued grinning. Aziraphale sighed. “Anyway. Good evening, Crowley.”

“I’m a demon, angel, it’s what I do,” Crowley smirked. “Anyway, how’ve you been?”

“Busy,” Aziraphale said, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. “Ever so busy. Owning a bookshop is rather more work than I anticipated.”

“I did warn you that people were going to want to buy the books, if you made them available like that,” Crowley chuckled as Aziraphale puffed up with indignation.

“Anyway, I’ve had to resort to some very low tricks to scare off customers,” Aziraphale grumbled. “It’s been beastly work.”

Crowley laughed. He felt good, despite his brush with Hastur earlier. Maybe _because_ of his brush with Hastur—he hadn’t been discorporated, he’d talked his way out of a sticky situation, and honestly his saving grace was that Hastur was dumb as a box of rocks on a good day[24]. But the night was young, Aziraphale was here, and Crowley rather felt like dancing.

“I feel like dancing,” he announced, and stood. Aziraphale looked up at him, his expression amused and soft around the eyes, and Crowley’s energized heart soared. He held out his hand. “Come with me?”

Aziraphale’s expression morphed into one of polite horror. “Oh. Um. Angels don’t—that is—”

“You do know how to dance, don’t you?” Crowley asked, and Aziraphale blushed. That was new.

“I’m sure I could, if I so chose,” Aziraphale mumbled. “Angels…angels aren’t meant to dance.”

“I see,” Crowley said. That might explain why demons did (although nothing in the universe, save maybe the Almighty, could explain why they did it so badly). His hand remained extended. “I could help teach you, if you’d like. I’d like to.”

Aziraphale blinked up at him, and this time, Crowley wasn’t going to cave first. He was going to wait for an answer, a verbal one. After a minute, Crowley sighed. “Don’t think of it as dancing, angel, think of it as…organized walking.” He indicated the ballroom. “It’s basically all it is this century. Come on, one turn about the room, and I’ll drop the subject.”

Aziraphale looked at him, looked at the ballroom, bit his lip, and with a shaking hand, took Crowley’s. Crowley drew him up, placing Aziraphale’s hand in the crook of his elbow, and started walking towards the ballroom, his heart exploding in his chest. He couldn’t believe that actually worked.

“My dear,” Aziraphale murmured, “I believe some of these good people will be scandalized when they see two men on the floor together.”

“Well, we’re hardly men,” Crowley murmured back, and performed a quick miracle. “They’ll see what they expect to see and won’t bother us. Trust me.”

Aziraphale’s fingers squeezed his arm, and when Crowley led him into position, his cheeks were pink, but he met Crowley’s eyes with a determination that only added to the thrum of anticipation in Crowley’s veins. Curiosity wondered: what did an angel look like when he danced?

Aziraphale was a quick study as he and Crowley took part in the dance, and having a competent orchestra helped. Aziraphale was clearly nervous, keeping his eyes on his feet at first, but as he grew more confident with the repetition of it, more and more his eyes would flicker up to Crowley’s, and Crowley drank it in like wine. He was glad for the sunglasses, because Aziraphale surely didn’t need to know the full intensity of Crowley’s gaze right now, but part of him wished he’d left them off, just for this. Just to see what Aziraphale would do with the full weight of Crowley’s adoration leveled at him[25].

When the dance was over, Aziraphale was still pink-cheeked but with exhilaration, and he applauded with the rest of the dancers at the musicians’ skill. Crowley let himself smile and walked back where he and Aziraphale had been sitting before. Some wine sounded refreshing after some exercise. Aziraphale walked with him, and after a moment tucked his hand back in the crook of Crowley’s arm, and Crowley could have made it to the stars with the force of his elation.

He needed something to protect himself, Crowley thought as he and Aziraphale drank and talked the rest of the night away. Something to protect this. Insurance, of some kind. An idea began to grow in the back of Crowley’s mind as Aziraphale threw his head back and laughed at a joke Crowley made, a mad idea, but Crowley thrived on mad ideas.

It would just take some time and some convincing.

For now, Crowley drank his wine and laughed with Aziraphale and planned.

.

The houseplants were more of an accident than a conscious decision.

Crowley’s permanent London residence updated with the times, of course, but stark minimalism was stylish no matter the century, bleeding-edge and avant-garde and a lot of other words that meant bloody expensive. There were few personal touches, some trinkets he’d collected through the ages, some art, some statues[26]. Nothing really homey, though. Not that it needed to be homey, exactly, but Crowley was bored and could use a new hobby.

He had Eden and Padua on his mind when he heard a radio talk show mention the benefits of talking to plants, and that afternoon went out and purchased everything needed for an indoor garden. He had just the space for one, lots of natural light, central to the flat. He could feel the innocence of the plants as he drove them home, could feel the blind trust as he settled them in their new place. He read some books, bought a plant mister, and began his new career as a gardener.

The shouting hadn’t been so much intentional as it was a natural reaction to imperfection in Crowley’s work. One of the plants had begun to wilt, and Crowley lost his temper completely.

“I gave you a home,” he said, voice deadly quiet, “I water you daily, I give you everything you need, and this,” he grabbed a fistful of limp yellowing leaves, “is how you repay my kindness?”

Crowley became aware of the other plants in the room shaking, and, well, he always did have a flair for the dramatic. His voice grew several decibels as he took the flowerpot in hand, the dying plant twitching in its pot. “Take a good look, you lot,” he said, parading the traitor around the garden. “This is what happens to layabouts who disappoint me.”

Crowley took the plant down the hall, and then there was a horrible grinding sound, and when he came back with an empty pot[27], the plants straightened so quickly that one of them actually grew an inch. Crowley cocked an eyebrow, and decided further experimentation was necessary.

He found the happy medium between tyrant and domineering within a few years, and decided he quite liked gardening. It was nice to not be disappointed consistently. He thought idly about God having a shout in the Garden and wondered if that would have made things turn out differently.

Crowley specifically chose non-flowering plants. Flowers were a hassle. If he wanted to be charmed by something that lived brief and beautiful lives, he would mingle with humanity more. At least he’d get some tangible fun out of that. Plus there was the thing about attracting insects, and Crowley had his hands full making sure his plants didn’t develop blight, he didn’t have time to subject a whole other species to his will. On his softer days he would wander through the garden and touch the luxuriant leaves and wonder, idly, if Aziraphale liked plants.

Crowley’s flat wasn’t neutral ground. The bookshop, somehow, was. It was just one of those things that Was. That didn’t mean that, once in a blue moon, Crowley didn’t feel like inviting Aziraphale over, and that Aziraphale wouldn’t accept the invitation. Crowley had exactly two chairs in the flat: his throne, a gaudy thing he adored in the unironic way of people who enjoyed shiny things, and a less ostentatious chair that sat in the corner when not in use but fit nicely on the other side of his office desk.

“These are new,” Aziraphale said as Crowley busied himself with the scotch Aziraphale had brought with him. He glanced up and saw Aziraphale perusing the plants, and felt a little ping of pride. “They’re lovely!”

“And if they know what’s good for them, they’ll stay that way,” Crowley barked, and heard a shiver go through the garden. Aziraphale tutted, exiting the garden with a pout.

“Really, dear boy, you needn’t frighten the poor things to death.”

“Not to death, just enough to keep them vigilant,” Crowley shrugged, and slid Aziraphale’s tumbler towards his side of the desk. “They are looking rather good, though, aren’t they?”

“Yes, dear, you’re a talented gardener,” Aziraphale smiled, and Crowley wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic or not, with that glint in his eye. Crowley chose to take it as a sincere compliment and sipped his scotch in a self-satisfied sort of way. “I do have a question, however.”

“Yeah?”

“Why…er…why do you have such a…suggestive…sculpture, back there?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley nearly spit his scotch everywhere.

“I—what?”

“The sculpture,” Aziraphale repeated. “The one with what I assume are supposed to be Good and Evil. It’s a bit naughty, isn’t it?”

“Naughty?” Crowley repeated, his brain having entirely circuited out, because in six thousand years Aziraphale had never said the word “naughty” in his hearing.

“I suppose there’s a precedent for displaying erotic art,” Aziraphale mused, and Crowley truly felt he was inches from discorporation out of sheer shock, “but I didn’t think you were the type, my dear.”

“Erotic—” Crowley put his fingers to his lips, breathing deeply, chasing calm with frantic urgency. “Wrestling,” he said after a solid two minutes of Aziraphale sipping scotch and looking at him expectantly. “They’re wrestling, angel.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, and looked back through the garden at the statue. “Oh, I see, like in Greece. Pardon me, it did strike me as quite the statement.”

“Ngk,” Crowley said feebly, throwing back the rest of his scotch and pouring more. He was about to have an aneurism. It was one thing to wonder what Aziraphale would taste like in the privacy of his darkened bedroom after one too many bottles of wine. It was something else entirely to have Aziraphale calmly discuss the eroticism of Crowley’s taste in art in broad daylight in his own home. Aziraphale glanced at Crowley, and he looked amused, bless him.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and his tone was far too innocent, “you do know that I’m aware of what sex is, yes?”

Crowley made a series of noises that could have been interpreted as anything, really.

“Do you know?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley felt an honest-to-Satan _flush_ rising up around his neck and ears and face.

“How would I not know what sex is, angel?” he asked roughly. “I’m a demon. Inciting humans to lust is part of the package.”

“Well, yes, but you and I are a bit different from humans,” Aziraphale shrugged. “I was merely wondering if you’d partaken in that activity, yourself.”

“Oh my lord below,” Crowley groaned, and planted his face on the desk.

“It’s nothing to get so flustered about, dear boy, but if it distresses you, we can talk about other things,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley unstuck his teeth from around the inside of his cheek.

“I’m not _distressed_, Aziraphale, I’m in shock,” Crowley hissed. “You’re an angel of Heaven, aren’t you supposed to be above this kind of thing?”

“I don’t see why I should be,” Aziraphale replied, setting down his scotch glass. “It’s a natural human experience, not some taboo Heaven banned because of unruly behavior.” There was a shadow behind Aziraphale’s smile as he said that, something deeply hidden that Crowley didn’t have the fortitude to pursue at present, but it did strike him.

“So you have, then,” Crowley said. Aziraphale seemed a bit flustered, at last, and lowered his eyes as he nodded.

“It was pleasant,” Aziraphale said. “Between you and me, I prefer a nice meal to sex, but I wouldn’t write the whole activity off as a loss.”

“Buh,” Crowley said, his mind in a thousand places at once. “Um. Yeah, I’ve done it. Bloody useful tool, in the right circumstance, but it’s alright.” Aziraphale nodded, and was mercifully silent as Crowley gathered himself from the corners of his inner hurricane and tried to calm down. He was being ridiculous. Worse than ridiculous. He poured himself another drink.

Unfortunately, in the pensive silence, it seemed three glasses of scotch was more than enough, because Crowley slammed down his glass and said, “Wait, hang on—who’d you have sex with, then?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped, and Crowley felt that flush returning. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, surely you must know that.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, “but—” The sentence that tried to come out was some variant of _I was kind of hoping to be your first, if that was a thing you wanted, if maybe you wanted to try it out_. That wouldn’t do, it absolutely would not do. What came out instead was, “Anyone important?”

“No one you knew,” Aziraphale assured him, and somehow that didn’t make Crowley feel any better. “I assume all of yours were high-profile liaisons?”

“Don’t call it that,” Crowley grimaced. “Some of ‘em, yeah. Some…were just for fun.” He shrugged. “I’m like you, though, don’t really need it. Prefer drinking, for starters. But it’s nice.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale nodded, and the silence that settled was at least a bit more comfortable now. Crowley thought there was a chance his spine could relax sometime this century.

It was these quiet moments that tested Crowley the most, because in quiet, unassuming moments, anything could be said, anything could be admitted to. If Crowley was honest, he loved these almost more than the bed-sharing that they used to do. He cleared his throat. “Angel.”

“Yes?”

_You’re my best friend. Am I your friend, at least? Is being friends going too fast? Did you know I almost kissed you more times than I can count, because I’m disgustingly in love with you?_

Crowley swallowed. “Nice day today.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, looking perplexed, “I suppose it is, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Crowley buried his face in his scotch and tried to swallow down all of his emotions without choking.

.

Nanny Ashtoreth was by far one of Crowley’s favorite personas.

She was stylish in different way, and somehow made flat shoes and sensible heels look sophisticated. Crowley would never admit, even under threat of discorporation, that Mary Poppins had been the inspiration, but she rather didn’t think she needed to. She had a parrot-head umbrella, for Satan’s sake.

It rankled that the position Aziraphale chose was of the gardener, but Crowley needed to be closer to the Antichrist, so Nanny it was. Crowley had been so many things over the long millennia—vagabond, bandit king, royal advisor, pirate, spy, assassin[28]. There was that stint back in the fourteenth century with the house of dying children, but other than that, Crowley had never really been in charge of a mortal like this before.

Warlock Dowling was a typical child: bright, inquisitive, Curious to a fault. Nanny Ashtoreth knew to keep her eyes peeled for signs of his power peeking through, and at five surely something would be popping up any day now. The more Ashtoreth watched, the more she was convinced that the most devilish thing about the child right now was his aversion to both bathtime and vegetables. But there was still time. She was confident that evil would start leaking from his ears before too much longer.

Or, rather, she wasn’t confident, she was hoping not, because Brother Francis was doing his job, too, not that the garden reflected it. Warlock did, though; he referred to animals as Brother This and Sister That and insisted Nanny had to, too, and sometimes he did this thing where if he was wearing a hat, he would take it off and hold it to his chest and smile at Nanny when she came into a room like Brother Francis did. This was more charming than Crowley was prepared to admit, both from the child and from the gardener. Luckily she and her face had had a long discussion after the whole flushing incident that one time Aziraphale had noticed her Good and Evil wrestling statue, and her cheeks knew better than to dare flood with warmth.

Aziraphale wasn’t at his most comfortable with children, but he was doing his best, and sometimes that got Crowley through the torture of washing a screaming boy behind the ears.

It was strange, being in such close quarters with Aziraphale like this. Brother Francis had his own little hovel on the edge of the property, but every day when Nanny Ashtoreth took Warlock outside, Brother Francis was there, pulling weeds and lecturing the ivy and pointing out myriad small animals that had certainly not been on the premises before Brother Francis got there. It seemed that the character of Brother Francis was either chivalrous to a fault, or had a soft spot for Nanny Ashtoreth, because the brightness of his smile whenever they interacted was blinding. Crowley couldn’t let herself pretend what she so desperately wanted to believe, but Aziraphale was making it impossible to not have just a little hope, to not nurse that little neutron star in her chest, inexorably pulling everything Crowley was into itself. Crowley was nothing if not an optimist at heart.

Nanny Ashtoreth, however, was a practical woman, not prone to sighing and giggling when paid a compliment, but if her smiles for Brother Francis were especially soft, the only witness was a five-year-old Antichrist, so there.

One night Nanny Ashtoreth let Warlock stay up very late, and when she deemed it was time, she gathered up a blanket and took him back outside to the garden.

“We must be very, very quiet, my dear,” Nanny Ashtoreth whispered, and Warlock giggled behind his hands as they walked. When they were far enough away from the house, Nanny Ashtoreth laid out the blanket and told Warlock to lay down, then got down with him and stared up at the sky. Warlock gasped.

“There’s so many, Nanny!” Warlock cried, and Nanny Ashtoreth, her current energies being spent on banishing the worst of the light pollution around the estate, smiled. “I didn’t know they had so many colors!”

“Every color of the rainbow,” Nanny Ashtoreth said in her soft voice. “One day, when you rule a conquered Earth, you can make it so everyone has a view like this every night.”

“I think that one looks like a frog,” Warlock said, and Nanny Ashtoreth wasn’t sure if she should be disappointed or relieved that Warlock didn’t seem to understand what she’d said.

“Show me, darling,” Nanny Ashtoreth said, and let Warlock point out constellations he saw in the sky. Her heart was not melting. She was a demon, for crying out loud, and the child tracing the wings of a butterfly in the sky was the Antichrist. This was just a job, one she had to take to save the world, and getting attached wouldn’t do.

Story of Crowley’s life, really. Step one: do not get attached. Step two: disregard step one. Step three: shoot self directly in foot.

Nanny Ashtoreth took Warlock back inside to go to bed, and when he was asleep, she came back out to the garden, kicking off her shoes and spreading on the blanket with a sigh. She had a few hours left in this particular miracle, and it had been ages since she’d seen her creations quite this clearly.

She woke up in the garden, clammy and cold, but there was a blanket thrown over her, a blanket she hadn’t brought outside, and as Nanny Ashtoreth went back to the house to clean herself up, she couldn’t help but notice the blanket smelled like cocoa and old paper.

.

Crowley didn’t think he’d ever been so tired in his entire existence.

It wasn’t every day he held a flaming car together with his mind, stopped time to let the real Antichrist figure out what to do, and lost his best friend, but every day wasn’t Armageddon. It wasn’t every day he and Aziraphale sat side-by-side on a bus and wound up holding hands, either, with Crowley’s head on Aziraphale’s shoulder and Aziraphale leaning into him, too. Crowley was half-convinced he was dreaming, but when Aziraphale put both of his hands around one of Crowley’s and started stroking his hand with his thumbs, Crowley felt that he was about to astral-project himself somewhere around Jupiter and keep on going. Crowley added his other hand to the mix just to increase the contact, telling himself sternly that it had been a bit of a day but he wasn’t allowed to cry, he _wasn’t_.

Crowley tried to stay awake for the whole bus ride, but found himself being woken up anyway.

“We’re here, dear,” Aziraphale said quietly, pulling Crowley to his feet.

“Ngk,” Crowley groaned, and made his way out of the bus. He didn’t have the energy to help the driver out beyond making sure he got back on his route safely, but Aziraphale seemed to think also giving the driver a paid vacation was a good idea, so that was fine.

Aziraphale had to navigate them up to Crowley’s flat, because Crowley was too exhausted to function, though he did manage to grab Aziraphale’s sleeve before he miracled open the door.

“Might be a bit of a mess still inside,” he mumbled. “Had to use the holy water.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley shrugged. “We’ll be sure to step around it, then.”

Crowley must have lost some time in between, because the next thing he knew, he was being gently laid on his own bed and his glasses were being taken off his face. He scrabbled to grasp any part of Aziraphale within reach, but his hands were weak, and Aziraphale caught them in his own hands quite easily.

“Calm down, dear boy, I’m not going anywhere,” Aziraphale said quietly, and Crowley did as he was told.

“D’n go,” he mumbled. Or tried to.

“I’m right here, dearest,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley had to be dreaming at that point, because Aziraphale had never called him that, and he certainly had never kissed Crowley’s forehead like he was unspeakably cherished. “Sleep. We have a lot to do in the morning.”

“Bluh,” Crowley groaned, and fell asleep.

.

He woke up warm.

Crowley had an excellent bed, so this was normal. He also felt like he was experiencing the worst hangover of his life, which was less normal, but not unheard of. There was an angel in his arms, and that hadn’t happened in so long—

“Crowley,” a warm, amused voice said, “I know you’re awake, dear boy. We have a lot to talk about.”

“No,” Crowley groaned, burying his face as far into Aziraphale’s chest as it would go, and Aziraphale laughed, and God Above he could drown in that sound just like this, with his skull pressed to Aziraphale’s sternum and soaking in the vibrations. There was a hand stroking through his hair and Crowley went absolutely boneless, so much so he had to double-check that he wasn’t a snake right now. Nope. Still had the correct number of human limbs.

“I know it’s a lot to ask, especially after all you did yesterday, but I really do need your attention,” Aziraphale said. “There’s one last loose thread left to tie up.”

“What?”

“Heaven and Hell,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley felt ice flash-freeze over his warm and languid mood. He sighed. Then he sat back far enough so he could see Aziraphale’s face, but he wasn’t going to get up yet and Aziraphale couldn’t make him.

“Right,” he said. “That.”

“Agnes Nutter lent a little inspiration, and I think I’ve worked out a way for it to happen,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley frowned. “See, here, look—ye must choose your faces wisely, for soon enough ye will be playing with fire.”

“Alright,” Crowley said, “what’s that mean, then?”

“Well, Agnes is usually very literal,” Aziraphale said, “and the prophecy wound up in my hands. I have an inkling—that is to say, I think I know—well—”

“Yes?” Crowley interjected into Aziraphale’s dithering, and Aziraphale sighed.

“I think Heaven and Hell mean to execute us, my dear,” he said, and Crowley felt a sudden ferocious rush of rage. Let them try, let them even lay a _finger_ on his angel, he’d show them all what a demon could really be like—

“Yes, dear, you’re very fearsome, but perhaps you shouldn’t set the covers on fire,” Aziraphale laughed, and Crowley smelled the burning silk and stopped. “Anyway, if they want to be rid of us, they’d have to use hellfire for me, holy water for you.”

“Alpha Centauri’s still on the table, angel,” Crowley said, a hysterical edge to his voice, and Aziraphale reached out and laid his hand on Crowley’s cheek, stroking his thumb across the cheekbone, and Crowley’s plans to escape to the stars guttered to a complete stop.

“No,” Aziraphale said, “we aren’t running and hiding anymore, Crowley. I have an idea.”

“Alright,” Crowley said warily. Aziraphale’s hand traveled down to the side of Crowley’s neck, and Crowley held his breath as Aziraphale smiled, his eyes sparkling with whatever brilliance he was about to lay out.

“We swap essences,” he said, and Crowley abruptly hit a wall.

Here is a brief lesson on the history of essence: in the Beginning, when Crowley was crafting stars, all angels were made of essence. Essence is formless and ethereal, so angel appearances in Heaven can be rather confusing. The most efficient mode of communication between essences, and the most intimate, was through intermingling essence and dropping exactly what you meant into the thoughts of the other, with no room for misinterpretation or doubt. It had been how angels knew their distinct duties before, and it was how demonic management dropped information directly into Crowley’s brain for very important missions.

In theory, what Aziraphale was suggesting was perfectly possible. Essence was little more than soul-matter, and soul-matter could travel between vessels very easily, as Aziraphale had learned the previous day during his disembodied race to Tadfield.

In application, the idea of swapping—and possibly in the process mingling—essences with Aziraphale was simultaneously the worst and best idea Crowley had ever heard.

“It’ll work, I’m sure of it,” Aziraphale breathed. “With your essence in my vessel, hellfire won’t burn me, and with my essence in yours, holy water won’t destroy you. It might even confuse them enough to leave us alone.”

Crowley, still hung up on the mingling essences bit and also distracted by Aziraphale’s hand now traveling down his arm towards his own hands, could only make a series of guttural noises that might have been speech, or might have been a snake choking on a frog. Aziraphale frowned, then snatched his hand back.

“Of course, I know it’s terribly invasive, and I’m sorry about overstepping, but—”

“Angel,” Crowley said, finding his voice, rough as it was, “if it’ll save our skins, I’m all for it.” He reached out and grabbed the hand Aziraphale had just been scrambling his brains with. “Let’s go for it.”

They sat up facing each other, Aziraphale excited, Crowley grimly determined. No going back now; in a minute or two Aziraphale would know every thought Crowley had ever had about him. Some part of Crowley was glad to finally have it all out there, and without him even having to talk about it directly. The rest of him was terrified of what it would mean for their friendship. But both parts could wait their turn after the Surviving What Our Bosses Will Do To Us bit was over.

“Let’s see if I remember how to do this,” Aziraphale said, rolling his shoulders. “It’s been…goodness, it’s been since before Eden.”

“Before—hang on,” Crowley frowned, “what do you mean, before Eden?”

“Well, you wouldn’t know, I suppose,” Aziraphale smiled, but it was sad now; his hands, holding Crowley’s, tightened ever so slightly. “After the War…after the Fall…well, it started with the Archangels, you know, they were our leaders, and after Lucifer was cast out, they…changed. They were the first to take on corporeal forms, and for the rest of us, it meant verbal communication instead of…how we used to do it.” Crowley tightened his own grip in a wave of sadness touched with horror as Aziraphale blinked back tears. “It’s been…ever so lonely, without that. This helps,” Aziraphale held up one of their wrapped-together hands, “but even so, Heaven is a much colder place than it used to be.”

“Angel,” Crowley said in a hushed tone, disentangling one of his hands and reaching forward to cup Aziraphale’s cheek, “angel, why didn’t you say anything? All these years, we could’ve—and that time during the plague, when you said we shouldn’t anymore—”

“I think you’ll find all the answers and more in a minute, my dear,” Aziraphale said, leaning into Crowley’s touch, and Crowley’s breath caught in his throat. Slowly he brought Aziraphale’s head forward until they were leaning, forehead to forehead, breathing in the same space. They stayed like that for a long moment, just touching. Just breathing.

“Ready?” Aziraphale asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” Crowley rasped.

“One, two, three…”

Essence is fluid, and the transference worked best with touch. As Crowley’s essence rushed towards Aziraphale’s form and Aziraphale’s towards Crowley’s, there was an inevitable mingling that easily blew every other tender moment Crowley had ever allowed to happen with anyone else out of his mind completely. Aziraphale was just _there_, and Crowley _saw_—he saw the years of hesitance and awkward friendship, he saw the way Aziraphale joyfully loved Earth and even more carefully protected it. He saw the fierceness in Aziraphale’s soft-spoken spirit and how much of it was directed at him, at loving him, at shielding him the best way Aziraphale knew how. He saw all the quiet hurts Aziraphale hid away from the War and since, all the apologies Aziraphale had ever wanted to make, and at the center of it, like a fluttering banner in the wind, a name—his name—_Crowley, Crowley, Crowley_—

“Oh,” Aziraphale gasped, but it wasn’t Aziraphale’s voice. “Oh, my.”

“That was certainly something,” Crowley grunted, also not in his voice.

“It worked,” Aziraphale, wearing Crowley’s body, said, and the bright look on his face didn’t belong there, but Crowley let it go, shooting him a lopsided grin that surely looked out of place on Aziraphale’s face.

“So it did,” Crowley said, and looked down. This was definitely Aziraphale’s body, alright, he could feel the residual goodness like a rash. He felt like maybe there was a lot to talk about, a lot to say, but Aziraphale squeezed his hands (Crowley’s hands squeezing Aziraphale’s, this was going to be a mind-bender).

“We have some things to discuss after all this, I think,” Aziraphale said softly, and Crowley quirked a grin.

“I think I said what I needed to,” he said, “and I heard you. Loud and clear.”

Aziraphale smiled, and really, Crowley’s face should never look so soppy, but it was thousands of years too late for that, probably.

.

“Been thinking about taking a holiday,” Crowley said, after it all when they were back at the bookshop and his heart was so full from watching Aziraphale flit around his restored home he thought he was going to burst. “Run ‘round the world, see what’s new. Don’t suppose…” Aziraphale’s bright, earnest eyes choked off the rest of the sentence as a fresh wave of affection consumed him like a dying star, and Crowley found himself quite unable to continue.

“I’d love to,” Aziraphale answered. He smiled, reaching out to smooth down one of Crowley’s lapels, and Crowley suddenly wanted the glasses off his face. He needed Aziraphale to see everything[29], to know how much this meant to Crowley right now. Somehow, removing his glasses in this moment felt like the most intimate act he’d ever performed.

“Right,” Crowley said, brilliantly and not at all like he was blowing it. “Er.”

“As you said, we’re on our own side now,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley wasn’t sure if he was grateful or irritated about Aziraphale taking control of the conversation Crowley had started, but it was immaterial. “We should look out for one another, don’t you think? Easiest to do when we’re keeping each other in sight.”

“Yeah,” Crowley stammered. Why was talking so hard right now? “In sight.”

“There’s no rush, of course, if you have other business to attend to first,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley shook his head. “Excellent. I believe I have something very nice in the back to celebrate such an occasion.” Aziraphale stepped around Crowley, got a couple steps away, then looked over his shoulder. The glint in Aziraphale’s eye as he smiled very nearly paralyzed Crowley for another thousand years, at least. “Coming?”

Crowley took a moment to breathe, telling the erupting star in his chest to chill already, and let the smile he’d been holding back for six thousand years spread across his face. “Yeah, angel, I’m coming. Right behind you.”

Not much more to say, really.

Aziraphale looked at Crowley like a rare signed first edition in mint condition—better than that, even. Aziraphale’s hands roamed, gentle and firm and grounding. Aziraphale kissed him like coming home, like every good thing that had ever happened to anyone wrapped up in a hug, and the first time his mouth pressed to Crowley’s snake tattoo Crowley’s body lit up like a livewire. Aziraphale asked about boundaries and he made the coffee in the morning, and Crowley couldn’t believe he was so lucky. He had a lot of lost time to make up for, and tried to shove an Earth’s lifetime’s worth of love into every gesture. Hell would never take Crowley back, but Hell hadn’t really wanted him in the first place, and the feeling was mutual. Crowley put his feet up on the table and sipped expensive wine and listened to Aziraphale read to him from his latest book.

And so, to answer one of Curiosity’s first questions, what exactly would happen if an angel and a demon touched? Well, conceivably, exactly what did happen: they’d grow very fond of each other, indeed. Not really any need for further testing, once the answer was known, but Crowley did anyway, just to see.

[1] Well, not exactly, since angels were essence and essence didn’t have a tangible mouth, but rather than get bogged down in the specifics of essence and what it is and how it functions, let us stay in the realm of things that are known and say angels’ essence has a familiar shape, and leave it at that.

[2] Eugh, would have to change that as soon as he found a better alternative.

[3] And if Crawly was honest, he thought his limbed form was also striking, angular and red-haired and snake-eyed. Probably could have done without the snake eyes, but he didn’t know yet that they were all that different.

[4] Would it have killed Her to say her creations were going to be this interesting? Why was everything a poker game in the dark with Her?

[5] And when they were, Crawly would spend longer than necessary denying it, then hating it, then saying he hated it when really being utterly devoted to Aziraphale was how he drew breath.

[6] And for all he knew, there could have been, it didn’t necessarily have to be a lie.

[7] And the knowledge that, yes, angels and demons could actually touch was doubly worth it. Further experimentation required.

[8] Well, he was an optimist, but given his line of work, he had to come face-to-face with the ugly side of Earth sooner or later, and that would temper whatever parody of innocence survived his purge from Heaven.

[9] And more fool Hell to expect a creature of lies to be truthful in reports to Head Office.

[10] Crawly’s feet, unlike the feet of humans, were tough and angular and covered with a sheet of protective scales along the bottoms, and while he had toes and the basic structure of what could be called a foot, there were moments when the line between foot and shoe blurred a bit, at least in the early days, before shoes became much too fashionable to resist.

[11] As to why he was trying, Crawly wasn’t sure, but he liked Aziraphale’s smile and would like to see it return, so try he would.

[12] See, much better.

[13] The thing was as thick as Crowley’s wrist already and patched together with duct tape, which did his demon heart good to see.

[14] That feeling was only compounded by these newfangled things called “sunglasses” that he had just discovered, and they did wonders for his reputation, once people stopped screaming about his yellow eyes.

[15] Also because being drunk meant not dealing with Curiosity for a while, which could make life difficult when it wouldn’t shut up already.

[16] “People” in this case meant “children”, all orphaned by the plague, and now all dead.

[17] He most certainly was not wondering if they were the same kind of noises Aziraphale made when he was kissed, because he wasn’t thinking about kissing Aziraphale, or wondering if Aziraphale had kissed anyone before, or becoming irrationally inflamed with jealousy at the idea of someone knowing information about his angel that he didn’t.

[18] They were only silent because of Crowley viciously biting down on a pillow and refusing to unlatch his jaw until the tears passed.

[19] And certainly they were still up there for Crowley, just second after wine and a certain angel who shall remain nameless for fear of Crowley going down a more maudlin path with his thoughts.

[20] Honestly, the library had been going downhill for centuries, and when it finally did go up in flames, Crowley carefully did not tell Aziraphale he thought it was for the best.

[21] Black holes had been one of Crowley’s little jokes. Raphael hadn’t really approved, but they were already there, so they let it be.

[22] Not that any of Hastur’s smiles were in the vicinity of pleasant, but even for a being whose default was unpleasant, this smile was especially nasty.

[23] Crowley may or may not have started that rumor himself.

[24] On occasion he would team up with Ligur and the two of them would together produce a single functional brain cell, but it was few and far between.

[25] What Crowley failed to realize, of course, was that his sunglasses weren’t completely opaque and Aziraphale could, in fact, see how intently Crowley was watching him, but as for what Aziraphale’s feelings on the subject were, perhaps we should return to the narrative.

[26] While he was amused by the one of Good and Evil wrestling, there was one sitting in his entryway, a eagle in flight, that bore witness to the softest expression Crowley has ever seen on Aziraphale’s face, and it survived a bomb, so clearly he had to have it.

[27] Whether he actually harmed the plant or not, it was difficult to say, since Crowley never actually spoke about the plants that disappointed him ever again.

[28] That last one was less an earnest job and more posturing; Crowley didn’t like to get his hands dirty, but it was useful to have others fear what he might do at any moment.

[29] Well, he’d already Seen Everything, but there was merit to showing it in the physical world as well as the ethereal one.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
